


What's Changed—And What Hasn't

by Holly1492



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Post-War, Romance, Smut, romione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 21:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14317077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holly1492/pseuds/Holly1492
Summary: "I think, as your girlfriend, that I have certain rights and privileges," Hermione said through a smile. "Oh you do, do you?" he answered, grinning right back. "I do indeed," she continued. "You are now, beyond a shadow of a doubt,mine,Mr. Weasley, and I think you'll find me to be quite insistent on the matter." A canon-compliant, post-war Romione tale.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, dear readers!
> 
> In my first fic, I pictured what would have happened if Ron and Hermione had begun their romantic relationship MUCH sooner than they did in JKR's original story. The result was "All In," roughly 275,000 words of multichaptered madness, which you'll find right here on AO3 if you care to look.
> 
> In my second fic, "One Punch: A History," I explored what would have happened if Hermione hadn't gotten up the nerve to kiss Ron in the Room of Requirement.
> 
> So, I figured it was time to challenge myself to do something more or less canon-compliant. And here it is.
> 
> Thanks for reading …
> 
> Holly.

The soft clap of her boots on the corridor's marble floor echoed off the stone walls, setting a mournful tempo that gradually overtook the muffled murmur of the crowd behind Hermione as she slowly wandered away from the Great Hall and toward … well, she wasn't quite sure where.

The sound of her steps was soothing in its way, the slow rhythm mimicking her own steady heartbeat and distracting her mind from the noise of the battle still ringing in her head. But nothing could quite drive from her mind the memory of Ron's half-swallowed sob as he, Hermione and Harry rejoined the rest of the Weasley family after the battle. Ron had dropped to his knees to cry for Fred, draping his arms across Fred's lifeless chest and sinking his forehead against his dead brother's neck. Threaded with sorrow and desperation, the noise Ron made then was a lower-decibel version of the cries that rung out to Hermione from the basement of Malfoy Manor. She reckoned she would never forget either sound, but forced herself for the present to push both memories down, to catalog them for later review.

Why was she walking the corridors, like a prefect working overtime, when every living creature still left in the castle was either gathered in the Great Hall mourning the dead, scrambling about the infirmary nursing the injured, or otherwise making themselves useful in the kitchens or on one of the randomly formed cleanup squads?

_I don't bloody well know, do I,_ she thought, smiling at the way Ron's habits of speech had so thoroughly become mixed in her own, at least in her head. Thus allowing herself, Ron-style, to do something so purely senseless, she continued walking, figuring she would eventually find whatever it is she was looking for. Perhaps, she thought, she simply needed to do her own mental inventory of the places within the castle that mattered to her most.

She hadn't meant to break away from the group like this — not consciously, anyway. And, of course, she couldn't have walked off even if she'd wanted to earlier. Harry had had things he needed to say and do in the immediate aftermath of the battle, business to settle with Dumbledore regarding the Elder Wand, and he plainly wanted Ron and Hermione by his side when he did it. And then there was Ron. He'd held her hand so tight from the moment Voldemort fell until the moment he knelt beside Fred and finally let himself open up the floodgate of tears for his fallen brother. And even then, when she'd pulled away slightly to give him space and some semblance of privacy to grieve, he'd swung his hand out wildly for her without looking, seeking and then finding her arm, wordlessly pulling her close to him. She had been privately pleased that he'd wanted her at such a moment, then, as she bent and settled her hands on his quaking shoulders to soothe him, she quickly chastised herself for her selfishness. But it couldn't be helped. He needed her — and, at last, he seemed to know it — and her heart thudded a few beats at the realization.

After a few more minutes and a few more absent-minded twists and turns through rubble-strewn corridors and up hidden staircases, she acknowledged to herself where her feet were taking her: to the Library. Her sanctuary. And she supposed that some part of her had craved a look, to do her own private inspection, to be sure the place that meant more to her than perhaps even the Gryffindor Common Room was still intact.

It was, thankfully — and surprisingly. Yes, several rows of bookshelves had been toppled, no doubt by the explosions that took place outside during the final battle. But aside from that and a few broken panes of glass in a window facing the Astronomy Tower, there was remarkably little damage inside Hermione's most prized haven.

She was drawn almost magnetically to the little table by her favorite window in the far corner of the Library. This had been the study spot she always used ever since she realized it afforded a splendid view of the distant quidditch pitch beyond the Great Lawn — not the entire pitch, mind, just the northern goal post, the one that Ron typically manned during practices and games. She touched her finger to one of the diamond-shaped panes of glass, wiping away the layer of dust that had collected there no doubt during the battle and the year of neglect that had preceded it, and squinted to get a better look at the rings just visible over the horizon. She remembered leaning and peering just so, craning her neck to get a good look as the Gryffindor team's brooms bobbed and weaved in the distance. In those awful months when Ron was dating Lavender, the glimpses she caught of him from this vantage point, the flash of his red head just a dot on the horizon, were the only ones she'd get for days or even a week at a stretch — barring classtimes and awkward comings and goings in the Common Room, of course.

She felt a familiar pang in her chest at the memory, a sharp reminder of how much she missed him — and oddly, she missed him even now, though her rational mind knew that was ridiculous. He was just downstairs in the Great Hall, wasn't he. And besides, things were different now. Quite different.

But then … were they?

Turning toward the toppled bookcases behind her, she paused to consider. She extracted her wand from her back pocket — still Bellatrix's, she thought with a grimace — and waved it distractedly, setting the shelves to right and restoring the heaps of books to their proper place with a few efficient flicks and a muttered "Reparo" or two.

Her mind wasn't really on her work, of course. How could it be?

As she mended the remaining bookshelves, she replayed the kiss in her head — the one she'd planted on Ron's lips inside the Room of Requirement. She had most definitely initiated it, but Ron had kissed her back, and with great enthusiasm. So yes, things _were_ different now. She'd felt Ron Weasley's lips on hers, had known the feeling of his arms wrapped tightly about her back, pulling her close. They were sensations she'd craved for years and, like most cravings, one taste was hardly enough to satisfy. She longed to touch him, to kiss him again, to find the answer to the question that she couldn't answer alone, that they'd had no time to stop and discuss: Now what?

"I had a feeling I'd find you here," came a voice from the direction of Madame Pince's desk, and Hermione whirled to see who spoke, though of course, she would know that voice anywhere.

"I'm ridiculously predictable, I suppose," Hermione said, tucking the wand back into her pocket.

Ron stayed where he was, across the room from her, maddeningly far away, and looked her over. She knew she was as begrimed and quite possibly as smelly as he was, not having had a chance to freshen up since the battle ended. And then she saw it — the small glimmer of a smile that curled up just one corner of his mouth, despite his reddened eyes and the tracks of tears that cut through the dirt and dried blood on his cheeks.

"You're anything but predictable, Hermione Granger," he said in a tone that one would use when speaking at a much closer distance — say, when holding someone in one's arms, low and intimate. And yet, she heard him perfectly, and couldn't help but smile in return.


	2. Chapter 2

He'd known she needed a little time to herself. Hell, they all did. And so, when he volunteered to look after Mum and George while his Dad went with McGonagall to discuss funeral arrangements, he wasn't terribly surprised, nor was he worried, to see Hermione eventually wander off toward the doors of the Great Hall, but only after she gave his hand a gentle squeeze and flashed him a nod that seemed to say wordlessly, I'll be back soon.

She was hindered in her progress, stopped at nearly every step, by survivors — teachers, students, parents, and even Nearly Headless Nick — who took their opportunities to thank her as she went. She looked exhausted, poor thing, but Ron was proud to see how graciously she accepted these attentions, how she bent her head to listen closely to each word being said to her, how diligently she made eye contact with each speaker, how a sad smile would come across her lips as she heard yet another tale of loss or of triumph. He doubted she knew he was watching her from his seat there at the Gryffindor table, but he was, and as disheveled and sleep-deprived and tattered as she looked, he couldn't help thinking that she'd never been lovelier.

His mind flicked to the memory of the way she looked at Bill and Fleur's wedding — which seemed so long ago now — and he debated with himself. Yes, she was stunning that night, even prettier than she had been at the Yule Ball. But here, now, among the ash and soot and rubble in the Great Hall, she was supremely beautiful to him, and he reckoned it was because the lips he was now gazing upon had touched his. She'd given him reason to hope.

He was in love with her. Madly. Of course, he'd been aware of this fact for a while — since the Lavender days, at least — but sitting there just then, the depth of it struck him anew, possibly because, as the relief of their victory washed over him, he at last had an opportunity to see her, really _see_ her, without the distractions of fear, worry and dread. Watching her make her way through the crowd, he was certain there was absolutely, positively no one else quite like her anywhere on Earth, and all of her qualities, good and bad — for she was far from perfect — added up to Hermione Granger, the most exquisite and precious woman he knew or likely ever would know.

And so, when his father returned to gather his mother in his arms and guided her toward the Head Girl's quarters for much-needed rest — McGonagall had insisted that Molly and Arthur take the room for the night — and when Lee Jordan and Angelina Johnson turned up and shuffled George off for a walk on the Great Lawn, Ron looked around and realized he was alone. Harry and Ginny had gone off together hand-in-hand, strolling in the direction of the Astronomy Tower, more than an hour before, while Hermione was still present. Bill had Apparated with Fleur back to Shell Cottage for the night. Charlie had joined Percy and a few Hufflepuffs on an impromptu cleanup crew that had formed to help Hagrid put the Gamekeeper's hut back in order. So, eventually, Ron rose and started walking, knowing his destination was not so much a place as a person. Everyone else's needs had been attended to for the time being — it was time for the two of them, him and Hermione, to get themselves sorted, for better or worse.

She was precisely where he expected her to be, tidying up the Library, her home away from home.

He watched her for a few moments before making his presence known, marveling at her ability to perform the complex magic necessary to raise ancient, 25-foot-long wooden bookshelves to an upright position while she was clearly beyond knackered.

"I had a feeling I'd find you here," he said gently, and felt his heart pound once or twice when Hermione whirled around, mildly startled, a warm smile lighting her face.

"I'm ridiculously predictable, I suppose," she said.

"You're anything but predictable, Hermione Granger," he said, knowing of course that the statement was only half true. He'd known her since she was 11 after all — knew her and Harry as well as he reckoned he knew anyone, inside and out, and liked to think he could guess how either one of them would react to just about anything. That said, Hermione was still capable of surprising him now and then, and deeply. The astonishment he felt when he first got a look at that amazing beaded bag of hers occurred to him, and he grinned inwardly to see that it was still there, strapped across her torso.

But more surprising than the beaded bag ... and the time she punched Malfoy in the face ... and the time she cursed Marietta Edgecombe ... was the fact that she'd kissed him — quite passionately — just that morning. He hadn't seen it coming, and certainly hadn't had time to think about it and wonder what it meant, but he knew one thing for sure: Things between them were different now. Very different. He hoped she felt for him something like what he felt for her. The thought of it warmed him from the inside out. He knew damned well that he had a load of grieving to do, but somehow there was space in his heart for this, too, this growing suspicion he had that Hermione loved him back. It made him feel so happy that he might just burst.

"I don't suppose you've got any clean laundry inside that little beaded bag of yours," he said, trying to sound casual as he tugged at the neck of his grimy T-shirt.

Hermione chuckled. "Yes, thank goodness. Or thank Fleur, more like. She did a batch of laundry for us before we left Shell Cottage," she said.

"Gods, Shell Cottage," Ron said with a shake of his head. "That was the last time any of us got any sleep, wasn't it."

"Mmm."

He shrugged. "I'm pretty ripe, truth be told. Could do with a shower and maybe a weeklong nap. What do you say?"

His heart skipped a panicked beat when he realized that he'd perhaps just implied that they ought to nap _together,_ but it resumed its normal rhythm when he saw her smile widen slightly.

Emboldened by her response, he lifted his hand out to her in invitation and cocked his head toward the door. She stepped forward until she was just beyond arm's reach from him, studied his outstretched hand for a moment, raised her eyes to his, and then grasped his hand with a nod and a little laugh.

Ron looked down at their joined hands, rubbing his thumb over Hermione's knuckles and giving her hand a slight squeeze.

"Let's go," she said, and followed him toward the Library's double doors.


	3. Chapter 3

There was so much to say that neither Hermione nor Ron quite knew where to begin, and so they both opted, by some sort of unspoken mutual consent, to walk along silently together, hand in hand. It wasn't an awkward silence, however. Far from it. Ron, for his part, couldn't stop running his thumb across Hermione's knuckles, noting how small and delicate her hands were. If he didn't know better, he would have described them as fragile, and yet he was aware perhaps more than anyone of the power that lay in those hands, the magic they were capable of conjuring, the pain they had endured.

Hermione, meanwhile, simply enjoyed the feeling of ambling side-by-side with him, her hand planted safely in his. She tried to chase the thought away, but it kept turning up: how lovely it would have been to walk the corridors like this with him when they were students. The occasional need to bypass a pile of rubble left in their path by the just-completed battle did much to squelch these notions, however. Not for the first time that day, she chided herself for indulging in such girlish fantasies in the face of the horror and destruction of the war.

Almost as if he'd read her thoughts, Ron cleared his throat — a sound that jolted Hermione from these morbid ideas.

"It's all right, you know," he said quietly, not looking down at her but rather training his eyes on the hallway ahead, the better to help her negotiate her way around the mounds of broken stone and twisted metal that occasionally blocked their progress. "It's all right to be happy. This is what we fought for, isn't it."

He said this as they came upon a particularly large obstacle — a marble pillar that had fallen at an angle, spanning the entire corridor. Without missing a beat, Ron turned to lift Hermione by the armpits, swinging her over to the other side and then leaping to clear the pillar in one bound, not seeming to notice the mingled look of astonishment and confusion that lit her face.

He plodded ahead absent-mindedly and then stopped with a jerk, realizing she wasn't with him. He looked back at her, and that's when he saw her expression: lips pursed and trembling, tears welling in her eyes, as she stood beside the fallen pillar.

He tilted his head sideways, a look that asked wordlessly, You all right then?

She sniffled and wiped her nose with her sleeve in answer. Yes, mostly. But …

"What do you mean, exactly?" she said in a tiny voice. "What we fought for," she added, clarifying.

Bloody hell, Ron thought. Do I really have to explain it? He reckoned he did. With an inward smirk, he realized that if he was going to do anything like what he wanted to do with this girl — build a life and all that — he'd have to learn that there were times when she demanded precision. And this was one of them.

"I mean, it's OK to be happy. Yeah, we suffered losses. Big ones. Ones we'll never get over. But we can be happy, too," he said. "We won."

She shuddered.

"But … but …" she sputtered, looking down at her feet before raising her eyes to his again across the distance between them. "What about Lupin? And Tonks? And … and …" She stalled in mid-sentence, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. "What about Fred?" she finally squeaked, though it hurt like hell to do so over the burning in her throat.

Ron paused to consider, mildly surprised that he could speak without choking up at the idea of Fred just then. "They'd want us to be happy," he said with a shrug. "As happy as we can manage." He placed his hands on his hips and looked down to the floor, gathering his thoughts. "Anything less would really hack Fred off, don't you think?"

She choked out a soft laugh at that despite herself, the tears that had been welling in her eyes leaking over and pouring down her cheeks. He stepped toward her quickly and before he had a chance to stop and think, he'd wrapped his arms around her, and she sunk into him reflexively, tucking her head beneath his chin and pressing her wet cheek against the front of his shirt.

"Shh," he whispered as he rubbed his hands up and down her back. "Shhh … it's all right," he continued, raising one hand to gently press her head more firmly against him as he continued to murmur random words of comfort in her ear. Hermione responded by clasping her arms tightly about Ron's waist, not noticing or even caring that her tears were thoroughly dampening the front of Ron's shirt. In a way, he was glad she was crying — letting out her grief, and trusting him enough to do so in his presence. The last time she came close was at Shell Cottage, not long after she'd awakened from the Dreamless Sleep that Fleur had given her to treat the injuries she'd sustained at Malfoy Manor. He'd stayed by her bedside round-the-clock back then, though he was nearly as delirious as she was from fear and fatigue. Once she'd come round and rested her eyes on him, once she'd gotten a grip on herself and realized where they were and what had just happened, she had very nearly cried — her lips wobbled, and her eyes pooled, but she held it together, forcing the tears back down. He'd so wished that she would unburden herself just then — he longed to help her, but stood mutely, just out of reach, not sure she would let him. The feel of her in his arms now, shuddering with each sob, was oddly reassuring.

"It's OK, you're safe now," he said softly, one hand still brushing her back while his other was nestled deep in her hair. "It's over. It's all over now."

Hermione took a deep breath and squeezed Ron's middle again firmly, loving the sensation of being wrapped up in him, and feeling surprisingly comforted by his words. She sniffled and hiccuped, then leaned back to look up into his face — so close. She'd never really seen him so close before — at least, not at her leisure like this. When she'd kissed him in the Room of Requirement, it had been so quick, she didn't have time to really look. But now she did. His ruddy brows were furrowed in a look of concern, but his expression slowly melted into something almost like a smile as her eyes traveled from point to point over his face. He was desperately in need of a shave, and his face was covered with soot and Merlin only knew what else from the battle, but she couldn't help thinking that he was the most beautiful sight she'd ever seen.

"Hey," he said then, yanking her from her thoughts. "You all right now?"

She took a deep, shuddering breath and, after asking herself the same question, she nodded faintly.

The hand that had been buried in her hair had migrated forward, and he lifted the other hand from her back and placed it on her cheek, so that her face was framed in his hands. He traced his thumbs across her cheeks, smearing the tears and dirt together, and smiled at her. He couldn't help it, nor could he explain it. He should be miserable right now, but standing here with Hermione Granger's face in his hands, he was unutterably happy.

She smiled back. He lowered his gaze to her lips and then bent his face downward to meet hers, first skimming his nose against hers gently and then angling still further to lightly graze his lips against hers in a slight side-to-side motion before pressing forward and taking her lower lip between his, tasting the saltiness of her tears as she opened her mouth just enough to kiss him back. He exhaled expressively through his nose, realizing as he did so that he'd been holding his breath for some time, and she giggled softly against his lips.

"We get to do this now, don't we — kiss each other, I mean," he said, his lips still brushing hers, his eyes still closed.

"Mmm," she hummed, a little buzz against his skin. "This and more."

He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise and pulled back a bit, glad to see a look of mischief in her eyes. "First things first, Miss Granger," he said. "Food, a shower and fresh jammies, in that order, eh?"

She nodded and he stepped back, extended a hand to her and led her in the direction of the kitchens.

"I could eat a Hippogriff," Hermione said as they sidestepped a pile of shattered glass.

"I'd settle for a sandwich," Ron replied, and they quickened their pace.


	4. Chapter 4

The house elves gave Hermione and Ron a hero's welcome in the kitchens — and Ron considered it a minor victory that Hermione gladly let herself be fed and fussed over by the small army of elves who had swarmed them upon their arrival and escorted them to a pair of tall chairs next to the kitchen counter. Accustomed as she was to watching Ron eat, even Hermione had to admit that she had never seen Ron put away quite so much as he did while the two of them sat there before so many enormous plates of food. The elves started by serving breakfast-type items and watched with quite obvious satisfaction and delight as Ron hoovered up hotcakes with syrup, bacon, eggs, sausages and fried potatoes, then moved on to a light luncheon of two ham sandwiches before finding room for a dinner-sized portion of chicken-and-leek pie, all washed down by flagons of pumpkin juice. Hermione contented herself with a portion of chicken-and-leek pie that was large by her standards, a salad, a pile of dinner rolls slathered with butter — followed by a slice of chocolate cake, a treat that the daughter of dentists wouldn't normally indulge in, but she decided she'd earned it.

The house elves wouldn't let them leave without pressing a lidded picnic basket packed with more food — turkey sandwiches, bottles of butterbeer, a loaf of crusty bread, several rounds of cheese, apples and biscuits, all kept fresh under a cooling charm — into Ron's arms. Ron, for his part, didn't mind. He was full to bursting, but he also intended to sack out in his old four-poster for at least 24 hours and liked the idea of having snacks at hand — the better to avoid having to leave his room and thus deal with anyone other than Hermione for the next little while. And that was indeed his intention: To spend that night and as much time as possible beyond that with her and only her, in the cozy confines of his bed, with the canopy curtains drawn tight.

He was chuffed to find that, as they left the kitchens and took the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower, Hermione slipped her little hand into his without his even seeking it out, and she gave it a warm squeeze. They made their way past a quite tipsy Fat Lady ("Oh my brave, brave dears!" she had exclaimed before waving them through) and into the Common Room, which was remarkably intact, a few shattered windows and a torn and scorched tapestry the only obvious signs of the battle that had raged just hours before in the halls outside.

To their mutual surprise (and truth be told, to their mutual relief, though neither said it out loud), the Common Room was deserted. Thus, there was no one to witness what might have been an awkward moment, as Ron and Hermione paused momentarily at the bottom of the staircases leading up to the dormitories.

Hermione gazed up into Ron's face, scanning for signs of what he wanted to do next. He, meanwhile, searched hers — so closely that he didn't miss the little quirk of an eyebrow and the slight inclination of her head toward the boys' staircase. That was all the encouragement Ron needed, and he turned on his heel and led Hermione up the passageway two steps at a time, forcing her to nearly run to keep up.

She was breathless and laughing when they reached the equally deserted 7th year boys' dormitory. Neville, they knew, had already headed home with his Gran. Dean and Seamus had survived the battle, thank goodness, but neither Ron nor Hermione quite knew where they were at the moment. They both cast their eyes toward Harry's bed, which was empty.

"I guess Harry and Ginny are still out on their walk," Hermione said quietly.

"S'pose so," said Ron as he let go of Hermione's hand in order to hoist the heavy picnic basket onto the dresser next to his bed. "I reckon they'll stumble in here eventually," he added. "Maybe we ought to tidy ourselves up before the place starts to get too crowded."

This was a perfectly reasonable idea, and yet the very thought caused Hermione to go red in the cheeks. She longed for a hot shower. She couldn't remember the last time she had brushed her teeth — was it at Shell Cottage? And she was desperate to slip into a clean set of pyjamas. But … then what?

She _knew_ what, and the thought turned up the temperature of her cheeks another few degrees, if that was possible. And she was also painfully aware that this was the first time she'd been alone with Ron in his Gryffindor bedroom. Sure, she'd been _accused_ of being alone here with him once before — by Lavender, of all people — but of course she wasn't aware that Harry was there under the Invisibility Cloak the entire time, was she.

Hermione fumbled nervously with the beaded bag for a moment, extracting Harry's toothbrush and pyjamas and placing them on his bed — "he'll want these," she said briskly — but her hands shook somewhat as she did so and Ron noticed.

"Hey," he said softly, taking a step forward and grasping her hands in his, bending slightly to make eye contact with her. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do, you know. If you'd rather have some privacy … if you'd rather sleep in the girls' dormitory … if you'd rather be alone—"

"No," Hermione replied, with a bit more force than she intended. "No," she repeated in a softer voice, a shy smile crossing her face. "I don't want to be alone," she said in a tone just above a whisper. "But it's not that, really." She cleared her throat, scanning his face, noticing the way the orange late-afternoon light lit up his hair while she gathered her thoughts. "It's not that I don't want to be alone — that's not it at all, actually," she said, with a bit more conviction. "I want to be with _you,_ Ron. Right here. There's nowhere else I'd rather be right now than right here — with you."

After a long pause, Ron nodded. During that pause, he'd stopped to check himself — by force of habit. After years of misinterpreting and overinterpreting and underinterpreting signals from Hermione, he was accustomed to getting things wrong, to doubting himself. But, after casting another careful glance over her glowing face, and feeling her squeeze his hand encouragingly, he was sure. Surer than he'd ever felt about anything.

"Come on, then," he said, pointing his chin toward the loo just behind her back and then stepping over to hold the big wooden door open for her.

Hermione was surprised to find that the boys' loos were pretty much a mirror image of the girls' on the other side of the tower — a long, narrow white-tiled room complete with a row of shower stalls, each big enough to accommodate a bench and several hooks so one could dress in privacy. She thanked Merlin for that because suddenly she was acutely aware of what she was about to do — to disrobe, maybe not within sight of Ron but certainly within his presence, and she felt a wave of self-consciousness crash over her. Ron, bless him, sensed her unease and played the gentleman, giving her plenty of space and distracting himself by collecting a bar of soap and handing her down a pile of fresh washed towels from the shelf above the row of mirrors, which was just out of her reach. As he did so, he marveled that the house elves had managed to keep the laundry replenished despite all the chaos.

Hermione, meanwhile, rummaged in the beaded bag and produced a clean Gryffindor quidditch practice jersey and a pair of flannel trousers for Ron, as well as his toothbrush, his favorite socks, and his razor. He accepted these with a smile, grabbing a couple of towels from the stack and a bar of soap from a nearby sink, and then slipped away to the shower stall at the far end of the room.

Hermione stood still for a moment, listening to the sound of him undressing as she had done countless times before during the Horcrux hunt — only back then, she forced her mind away from the noise of his belt unbuckling, his trainers bouncing off the floor as he kicked them off, his jeans flopping to his feet only to be kicked off as well. She used to squelch her imagination at times like this, trying her best not to imagine what he might look like if only she'd had the nerve to turn her eyes in his direction. But now …

She allowed herself — as Ron turned on the tap and emitted a tiny moan as the hot water streamed against his back — to imagine what a sight he must be, how the water must be running in rivulets over his shoulders and down his arms and chest. She gulped and then realized that she was standing uselessly in the middle of the loo, when she herself should be showering as well.

She shook her head as if to clear it and, feeling bold, she headed for the shower stall just next to Ron's.

Little did Hermione know that, as she likewise started and tested the hot water, Ron's mind was occupied in similar thoughts about her. She was _so_ close … so tantalizingly close … just past the wooden partition that separated their shower stalls … and she was, well, _starkers_ … blimey. He was beginning to think he'd need to distract himself from his growing excitement lest he emerge from the shower with an embarrassing cockstand — but, at just that moment, he slathered soap into a rather large and fresh gouge in the muscle of his left shoulder, and all thoughts of a naked Hermione promptly exited his brain. He inhaled sharply through his teeth and then grunted in pain — so loudly that Hermione could hear.

"Are you all right?" she called above the white noise of the water.

Ron tried to look over his shoulder but couldn't get a good view. "I think so, yeah," he answered, his back still throbbing. "I just have a little knick in my shoulder — can't remember if I got it when I was dueling with that rat-faced bugger by the Potions dungeon or if it happened when you and I were trying to kill that bloody snake."

"I have plenty of Dittany," Hermione said. "Let's have a look, shall we?"

When Hermione stepped out from her shower stall, dressed in a fresh set of flannel shorts and an old, shrunken Gryffindor quidditch jersey that Ron had given her on the hunt, she was greeted with a sight that took her breath away, if only for a second: Ron, bare-chested before the mirror, twisting to and fro trying to get a good look at his injured back. The sight of him made her heart flip. Yes, he was covered in bruises and scrapes and, yes, he was terribly thin from their months on the run. But … well, he was still Ron, and this was more of him in the flesh than she had ever had an opportunity to see at such close range, even on the hunt — and now she had all the time in the world to well and truly take him in. And he was gorgeous, his bumps and cuts notwithstanding — miles of milky skin spattered with auburn freckles, all stretched tight over a framework of lean muscle and graceful bone. Her view ended where his pyjama trousers began but, even there, there was beauty — his hipbones framing a compact abdomen, tantalizing beneath a cover of plaid flannel.

"I can't quite see it," Ron muttered, turning his back toward the mirror and craning his neck over his right shoulder. His words snapped Hermione from her reverie, and she stepped forward, beaded bag in hand.

"There's better light over there," she said, looping her fingers into his and leading him to a bench in front of a long line of lockers across the room that was flanked on both sides by floor-to-ceiling frosted glass windows. She let go of his hand and gently pressed his shoulder downward with a playful command to "sit." He complied. She was quite happy to pamper him — and he was quite happy to be pampered.

Circling around behind him, Hermione set the beaded bag on the bench next to him and then she finally saw what he could not: A rather enormous gash in the fleshy part of his back just beneath his left shoulder blade. She drew in her breath sharply, causing Ron to look back and give her a reassuring smile. "It's all right, love," he said calmly — not realizing until he'd said it that he'd let that little endearment slip out. He hoped she wouldn't mind. As it happened, she didn't, and she smiled back at him despite her concern about the size and depth of his injury.

"Well, it's not all right just yet, but it will be soon," she answered, dipping into her bag and pulling out a bottle of Dittany. She then Conjured a few puffs of cotton wool and began dabbing the Dittany on, starting at the wound's deepest point, near the center of Ron's back.

He grumbled quietly.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I know it hurts, but —"

"It doesn't hurt, really," he hurried to say, not wanting to her to think he couldn't take it or some such rubbish. "It just … stings a little is all."

"I'm quite certain it does," she said dryly. _Cor blimey,_ she thought, _I'm quite certain it hurts like hell — and has for some time._

She continued to dab at it gingerly and the wound fizzed and crackled — but it also began to heal, and she was relieved to see that the reddened patches of skin surrounding it were already starting to return to their normal milky color.

"This wound is quite fresh," she said as she worked. "I reckon it must have happened later in the battle."

"Mmm hmm," he grunted, desperately trying to make as little noise as possible as the Dittany did its work, stitching the reddened edges of the cut back together and growing new, slightly scarred skin on top. Meanwhile, Ron hoped Hermione didn't notice how tightly he was gripping the wooden bench beneath him.

Hermione didn't notice — perhaps because her mind was occupied running through the latter events of the battle, trying to figure out just when this might have happened to Ron. And then it occurred to her — the stairwell. They were running, she and Ron, scrambling to get away from that hideous snake, Nagini. There was an explosion — a hail of rock and broken glass falling all around them — and Ron had thrown himself on top of her, twisting in mid-air so that she landed on top of him at the bottom of the staircase. He had broken her fall with his own body, then placed himself between her and the snake. Replaying the scene in her mind, she realized that this was the side he had landed on. The force of her body toppling onto his must have driven the rubble beneath him that much further into his back. He'd been hurt while trying to protect her.

She shivered slightly and felt tears swell into her eyes yet again as she paused to trace her fingers over the newly healed skin.

"I know where this came from," she whispered.

Ron caught the change in her tone and felt gooseflesh rise all around his back as the pads of her fingers grazed lightly over the line of tingling pain on his back.

"Oh?" he whispered.

He knew quite well when and where he got this wound — when the two of them had tumbled down the stairs as Nagini closed in on them — but he had been hoping she wouldn't make the connection. He didn't want her to feel guilty over the idea that he'd gotten hurt while trying to shield her from harm.

"Mmm," she replied, and then Ron felt the most extraordinary thing — a feather-light kiss, as Hermione skimmed her lips softly over the freshly healed skin, her slightly damp curls brushing against his back as she did so. Then she sank to sit next to him on the bench, situated in the opposite direction from him … the better to look directly into that lovely face of his, she thought … and ran one hand up and down the muscular arm nearest to her.

"You got hurt protecting me, didn't you," she whispered, her brow furrowed with concern.

Ron shrugged. "Mione, it was just a little knick," he said.

"It was more than a knick, Ronald," she said, a hint of impatience coloring her tone.

He looked down at her hand, still caressing his arm, and took it in his, turning it over once or twice before clasping it in both of his and pressing it to his chest. "I'd do that and more to keep you safe, Hermione Granger," he said in a hoarse whisper. He instantly recalled all the times he'd tried to protect her and failed — the Snatchers, Malfoy Manor — and fought to suppress the shudder that ran through him at the thought. Still, he meant it. She'd somehow managed to survive this shitshow of a war, with or without his help. He was bound and determined to learn whatever he needed to learn to protect her from here on out. If that meant becoming an Auror and serving as her personal body-guard 24-7 while she bloody well ran the world — or at least the Ministry of Magic — then, by Merlin, that's what he'd do.


	5. Chapter 5

Ron had already kissed Hermione twice, but nothing like this. He was well aware that they were sitting on a wooden bench in the loo of all places — hardly the most romantic setting he could have chosen — but the feeling had engulfed him so suddenly and so powerfully that there was just no resisting it. When she'd looked up at him like that, tears welling in her eyes, he'd come as close as he reckoned he dared to telling her exactly what was in his heart. He'd been worried that if he told her the whole truth — that he loved her, always had and always would — it would be too much, would scare her away. He had figured it was too early for that. But the look on her face, the feel of her hand pressed against his chest between his, had brought out the next closest thing: his declaration, as binding in his mind as a knight's vow to queen and country. He had just let her know, in no uncertain terms, that protecting her was what he considered to be his life's mission, and the way her eyes had glowed in response … well, the next thing he knew, he'd dropped her hand and pulled her into his arms, crushing his lips to hers in a kiss that soon deepened, and his heart throbbed as Hermione melted into him, draping her arms around his neck and humming against his lips.

Hermione's head, meanwhile, was swimming. She'd never kissed anyone this way before. She had been so young when she dated Viktor, she quite likely would have passed out if he'd ever attempted to kiss her so passionately. She had known back then that Viktor had wanted more — Viktor was a good deal older than she, after all — but he had been too much of a gentleman to press the issue and so had settled for a few rather chaste pecks here and there. And Cormac MacLaggen had attempted to kiss her this insistently once, but her automatic response had been to slap his face — hard. This … well, this was entirely different. She was overcome by the force of Ron's desire and, after an initial gasp of surprise and perhaps even fear, she surrendered herself to it completely, relaxing against his bare chest even as his grip tightened, viselike, around her middle.

He tasted of peppermint toothpaste and Hermione thought, absurdly, that he may have been the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted in her life. When he levered his tongue between her lips and then thrust it deep into her mouth, she felt a jolt to her very center that rather startled her, but she responded reflexively, opening wider and tilting her face closer, the better to angle her tongue against his own. He moaned into her mouth in reply, and she laced her fingers into his hair, as much to hold herself upright as anything else, because she felt her spine was turning to jelly.

She was so carried away with the sensation of being quite literally overwhelmed by him that she almost didn't notice at first that he had begun to giggle against her lips. She pulled back and looked up to see that he was indeed laughing, tilting his forehead against hers as he collected himself enough to speak.

"I'm sorry, love — honestly," Ron muttered, still grinning.

"What's so funny?" she said, smiling despite her confusion.

Ron snorted and snickered again. "Oh, sweet Merlin," he said, shaking his head. He straightened up to look at her, lifting a hand to tuck a curl behind her ear and noting how pink and swollen her lips were — and his heart fluttered with the knowledge that he'd done that, his kisses had turned her complexion that much rosier, had made her lips that much more scarlet. He stroked her temple briefly, forgetting for a moment what she'd just asked him, but then recovered himself. "I was just thinking what a git I am," he said quietly, cupping her flushed cheek in his hand. "I've only wanted to kiss you like this for years, haven't I, and where do I finally do it? In the bloody boys' bathroom."

He laughed again and she joined him.

His lips curled into a lopsided grin. "Not the most inspiring location, is it?" he added.

"Oh, I don't know about that," she said, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. "It doesn't matter to me but, come to think of it, your bed might be more comfortable than this old bench, don't you think?"

She was nearly as startled by her boldness as he was, but he wasn't foolish enough to say anything of the sort, instead grasping the opportunity for a change of venue before she could second-guess herself. He stood and pulled her along with him, leading her back into the bedroom and toward his four-poster without looking back.


	6. Chapter 6

They paused at the edge of the bed, the light in the room transforming from gold to pale violet as the late afternoon faded into early evening. Ron reckoned that, by all rights, he should be dog-tired — and, indeed, he could feel the pull of exhaustion tugging at him despite his excitement over the prospect of sharing a bed with Hermione. But he was determined to stay awake for this, the culmination of literally years of longing. He'd be damned if he'd let a little thing like sleepiness keep him from savoring this moment.

He reached to pull back the bedcurtain then waved an arm invitingly over the seemingly vast stretch of mattress before them. "After you," he said with a smile, and Hermione felt a surge of butterflies in her chest. She bit her lower lip, debated with herself over whether it would be improper to appear to be too eager, but then decided that propriety could go hang. With that, she happily scampered onto the bed, scooting over to the far side where she sat with her legs tucked beneath her atop the duvet and looked back at Ron in anticipation of his next move. She could barely suppress her grin — in fact, she was getting rather tired of trying. Would he think her a wanton for so brazenly leaping into his bed without so much as a second thought? Judging by the delighted look on his face, she didn't think so — but if that's the case, she wondered, why on Earth was he still standing there next to the bed?

Ron had a little unfinished business to attend to — namely, searing every detail of this moment onto his memory so he could look back on it forever, because he was quite certain this was going to be one of the highlights of his life. There she was. Hermione Granger. In his bed. _His_ bed. In his bed and waiting for him to join her. Blimey. He could hardly get over it.

She was sitting there, her feet tucked demurely beneath her bum, curls tumbling over her shoulders, which were clad in his old, shrunken Gryffindor practice jersey. He didn't know quite why, but the sight of her in his clothes always did things to him — especially now.

"Ronald, are you coming to bed or aren't you?" Hermione said with a small smile, crossing her arms in mock indignation.

"Patience, woman," he replied. "Allow a bloke to consider the logistics for a mo, won't you?"

"Logistics? What logistics?"

Ron cleared his throat theatrically and reached for his wand. "That basket of food, for instance, is too far from the bed," he said, and with a flick of his wand he Levitated the horde of house-elf food from its position atop the chest of drawers to the small nightstand that stood between his bed and the wall on Hermione's side. "There — much better. Now all we have to do to grab a snack is reach through the curtains."

"All righty then," Hermione said, crossing her arms a bit more tightly in an effort to keep from giggling. "What else?"

"It's a bit bright in here, isn't it?" Ron continued, flicking his wand toward the windows and causing the tapestry curtains to shut, immediately bathing the room in semi-darkness.

"Well, fine," Hermione said, realizing that her pantomime of mild annoyance was quickly morphing into the real thing.

"Expecto Patronum," Ron said without preamble, summoning his silvery fox terrier, which scampered and swirled about the room before settling down before him. "Hey, Harry — just wanted to tell you that Hermione and I are going to kip in the boys' dormitory tonight. Thought you'd want to know in case anyone's looking for us." With another flick of his wand, the Patronus flew through the keyhole in the doorway and out of sight.

"Is that all?" Hermione said, a note of impatience creeping into her voice.

"Not quite," he said.

"Ugh! Ronald!"

"Hang on, love," Ron answered. "If I am to achieve my ultimate aim, then I must consider all the angles, eh?"

Hermione's breath caught in her chest, and she felt a familiar warmth return to her cheeks. "Your aim?" she asked at a near whisper. "What aim exactly, Mr. Weasley?"

Ron's grin broadened, a mischievous sparkle lighting his eyes. "My aim," Ron said as he slowly placed one knee on the edge of the bed, "is to stay right here, with you and no one else, for at least this one night if not longer." With that, he kneeled atop the bed next to her and, with a few more flicks of his wand, he closed the bedcurtains, set up a quick Muffliato as well as a Silencio for good measure, then promptly stowed the wand beneath his pillow. "Short of the occasional trip to the loo and maybe the reincarnation of Voldemort himself, I intend to stay comfortably tucked away in this four-poster, and to keep you with me, Miss Granger, for a good long time," he said.

Ron leaned forward and angled his nose next to hers, and Hermione was more than ready for him, pressing her hands on his cheeks as he fitted his lips against her mouth, first gently, and then with more urgency, easing her down until she was stretched out on her back beneath him.

Ron, propped above her on one elbow as his free hand roved down to her waist, was already quite drunk on the feel of her soft lips giving way to his tongue, the caress of her fingertips on his cheeks, and her body, soft and yet firm, pinned below him. But when she hummed a long "mmmmmmmmm" of relaxed delight, he felt a burst of warmth run through his veins and he actually felt light-headed. This was ecstasy. It was more than he could have dreamed of — and he had dreamt of a moment like this for _years._

He broke his lips away from hers to run kisses across her cheek and down into the valley of her neck. "Gods, Mione," he murmured against her skin, "you're so … Merlin, you're so sweet."

Hermione threaded her fingers through his hair in answer, then trailed them down the back of his neck and onto his shoulders. She was loving being so near to him, sheltered by him, connected to him. She was quite at a loss to find words to describe the sensation, though she longed to.

"Oh, Ronald," was all Hermione could manage to say, over and over again, as she studied the way his arm muscles flexed as he hovered above her, caressed his bare and freckled chest, and succumbed to the kisses he was planting on her cheeks, her chin, her neck and, once again, her lips. He was stunning so up close — she found herself fixating on his eyelashes in particular, a mix as they were of auburn and gold, cinnamon and rust, contrasting sharply with the ocean-blue of his eyes. She couldn't get enough of him.

Carried away as he was, Ron still had the presence of mind to take stock as well, noting how deep Hermione's whiskey-colored eyes appeared there in the semi-darkness, how her chestnut-colored curls tumbled across his pillow, how her tiny frame fit so snugly beneath him. By now, he was quite certain she could feel precisely how excited he was, since her leg was pinned firmly beneath his middle. And yet, he couldn't have felt self-conscious about it if he tried. He wanted her to know how much she bewitched him, how much he wanted her.

As they explored one another with hands and lips, he was dimly aware that sleep was coming to claim him, and yet he didn't want to stop kissing her. He was starting to lose his grip, however, overwhelmed by the emotion and exhaustion of the day.

Every little movement she made, however … every little sound … drove him a little further toward letting go, past caring about what was proper or even what was smart … and he didn't want to stop. He wanted to touch and to kiss her until he quite literally dropped.

"Mione," he repeated hoarsely against the skin just beneath her left ear as he cupped her bum in his hand. "Mione, my love," he rasped. "Gods … sweet Merlin … I love you … I love you so much."

It had slipped out. He'd resolved, of course, _not_ to say it. Not just yet. Not just then. And yet, there it was, spilling out of him, as waves of exhaustion and grief and elation lapped at the edge of his consciousness. He loved her. The words had left his lips before he'd had a chance to consider, and it seemed to take his ears a moment to catch up. When they did, he froze for a millisecond, wondering if his fears were about to be proved right. Holy dragon dung, he thought. You've gone and ruined everything, you tosser.

Ron's heart thumped in his chest as he pulled his head back to look Hermione in the face.

To his relief, she was smiling at him, tears leaking from her eyes.

Ron lifted his hand from her waist and rubbed the back of his neck with it. "Erm, did I say that out loud?" he said sheepishly, looking up at her from beneath his lashes.

Hermione nodded.

"Oh," he said.

Her brow furrowed, and she bit her lower lip with her upper teeth. "Did you mean it?" she whispered, suddenly looking unsure of herself.

He chuckled. "Every bloody word," he said firmly as he returned his hand to her waist.

She sniffled. "Then what's the problem?"

"Problem? There's no problem," he replied with a shrug.

She grimaced at him with a look that said plainly, _You're not fooling me._

"All right," he confessed. "I reckon I was worried that if I said it, it might freak you out. Too soon, you know? Or maybe you'd think I was only saying it to get you in the sack — which I wasn't," he hurried to add.

"So, you meant it?" she said in a small voice, tracing a finger across his collarbone, a movement that made his skin tingle.

He paused to look at her — really look at her: Her delicate face, her skin shining like an opal in the half light. The brows that framed her brown eyes in a graceful arch. The flush of her cheeks. The light pink line across the base of her neck, the scar from Bellatrix's knife that would never quite go away. Sweet Merlin, he knew he loved her. Why shouldn't he say so? Suddenly, his previous hesitation seemed ridiculous to him. He loved her. He'd swear to it until the day he died, and nothing would change it — not ever.

"I meant every word," he repeated, his voice steady as he met her gaze dead-on.

She raised her fingers from his collarbone up to his lips, looking at them intently before shifting her gaze to his eyes.

"And I love you, Ronald Weasley," she said with a gentleness that made his breath catch in his throat. "I love you with all my heart. And I always have."


	7. Chapter 7

She had just enough light, filtering in from the slight parting of the bedcurtain behind him, to study his profile as he slept — the high forehead slanting down into the straight nose, the full lips, parted a bit in sleep, the squared chin, the muscular neck and the pronounced Adam's apple, which flexed as he breathed to the rhythm of his dreams.

She had watched him sleep before. On the hunt. She hadn't been conscious of how often she did it until he was gone for those long painful weeks. Even then, she had never quite trained herself to stop seeking out the sight of him during the night. Her rational mind knew he was gone, but her nighttime mind — the half-conscious portion wrapped in a gauze of wishes and desire — hadn't fully caught up. So, even knowing he had disappeared, perhaps never to be seen again, she would look toward his cot in the deepest hours of the night, searching for the solace of his presence, a presence that she had found so reassuring through the worst days and nights of the hunt, starting from that first fateful night at Grimmauld Place and onward. And even when he had returned — when she had been so angry and hurt and disappointed that she could barely bring herself to speak to him — she found herself studying him in sleep. She had cursed herself and her weakness as she did so, of course. But it couldn't be helped. The sight of him comforted her, then and now.

The fact was, he exerted some sort of magnetic pull on her eyes, whether he was asleep or awake. Even when her brain told her she should know better than to look at him at all, her heart had other ideas. Lying there next to him in the quiet of his bed, she grimaced at the recollection of the time, not so long ago and yet a lifetime ago, when she had surreptitiously studied him from across the Common Room as he and Lavender snogged in the far corner by the hearth. She _knew_ she should tear her eyes away, and yet she simply couldn't. Painfully fascinated, she had watched the muscles of his forearm flex as he clutched Lavender tight around the waist. She couldn't see his face — it was plastered against Lavender's, of course — but his arms. His _arms._ They were breathtaking. And they were wrapped around someone else. Until Ron took up with Lavender, Hermione hadn't realized just how much she wanted to be where Lavender was just then. The realization struck her with the force of a well-aimed Expulso: She was in love with Ron. She'd known she fancied him almost from her earliest time at Hogwarts. But this was no fancy. This was love. And the thought, as she sat there so many months earlier in the Gryffindor Common Room, had filled her with a profound sense of hopelessness and futility, for she was quite convinced back then that he would never be hers. She had quite literally driven him away.

The smile slowly returned to her face, however, there in the snug darkness of Ron's four-poster. Granted, Ron may not have been hers back then — though, if he were awake and knew her thoughts, he would argue that all she'd had to do, even in the thick of the Lavender affair, was crook her finger in his direction and he would have dropped everything and come running in a heartbeat. But of course she didn't know that. What she _was_ certain of at present, however — in addition to the newfound knowledge of how exquisite it felt to be wrapped in his muscular arms, against the warm skin of his bare chest — was that he loved her mightily. He'd said so over and over again after his initial, accidental admission of the fact, and his tone was so sincere, the look on his face so pure, that she had no choice but to believe him. 

"So you're not freaked out?" he had panted as he rolled onto his back, carrying her along with him so that she was splayed atop his chest, her hair cascading about their faces like a golden brown curtain. "You don't mind if I say it?" he had added breathlessly.

"Mind? Why would I possibly mind?" she had replied, looking down at him, her hands flat against his chest. She marveled once again at how beautiful and creamy his skin was even in this light. Despite the scratches, scars and bruises here and there — or perhaps because of them — he was a magnificent sight. After a moment, she shook her head slightly, realizing that she'd been silent for a perhaps a beat or two too long, lost in her thoughts. "Honestly, Ronald," she then whispered. "To hear those words from your lips … if you only knew …"

"I think I do know," he had interrupted, cradling her face in his hands to lock her gaze into his. "I do know. I've loved you so long, Hermione. I should have told you sooner, but I'm telling you now. I love a lot of people … Harry … my family … our friends … but none more than you. There's no one else. Never has been, never will be." He brushed her cheeks tenderly with the pads of his thumbs, shifting his gaze from point to point about her face before returning to her eyes. "I love you, Hermione Jean Granger. I love you so bloody much." And knowing Ron as she did, she no longer had reason to question it, because she was certain of one thing: When Ron loved, he did so thoroughly and completely.

"Oh, Ronald," she had murmured, tears leaking down her cheeks and falling onto his.

He had pulled her face closer to his and kissed the tears away with a series of gentle kisses, one by one, but she had craved the feeling of his lips on hers and soon nudged her mouth closer to his, and they lost themselves in wave after wave of deep kisses, tumbling madly about the bed until the inevitable happened — exhaustion overtook them, and they each sank into it, contented to sleep next to one another for the first time, though they both had been aware — though neither acknowledged it out loud — that they had wanted to do so much more than sleep.

Lying next to him now in the cozy confines of his bed, Hermione felt a warm swell of contentment wash over her. She let the bigger concerns of the moment flicker through her mind for a brief second — uneasiness about Harry's well-being, worry for the Weasleys, sorrow over Fred, nervousness about relocating her parents — but she quickly chased them away, choosing instead to focus on the here and now: Ronald Weasley, stretched out next to her beneath the covers and snoring ever so gently with every other breath.

Just then, his breathing pattern shifted slightly and she saw his eyelids flutter briefly.

He snorted a bit as he awakened further, and she struggled to stifle a laugh — but she made enough noise to wake him up a bit further. He stretched and ran a hand through his hair, making it point in all directions, before running the hand down over his face and turning his head to face her. "Sorry, love," he said in a sheepish tone. "Was I snoring?"

"No, not really," she answered, letting out the chuckle that she had been holding in. "All right, maybe a little."

"Oh, blimey, sorry about that," he replied, shifting onto his side to face her more directly. "Reckon this isn't the first time you've heard me snore, though," he added, a small grin curling the corner of his lip.

She laughed openly at that. "There were some nights on the hunt when you snored so loudly, I half expected the tent flaps to open and close with each breath," she said, biting back another chuckle.

"Oi! It was never _that_ bad," he muttered, and even in the semi-darkness, she could see his cheeks reddening. Still, she could tell he was grinning widely. "You've let loose with a few rafter-rattlers yourself, you know," he added. "There was a time in the tent when Harry and I thought about putting a Muffliato around your bunk."

She slapped his shoulder, pretending to be more offended than she really was, but she couldn't help it — she was laughing hysterically at this point. "Shut it, you," she gasped, slapping his shoulder lightly for good measure.

"Ow!" he said, rubbing his shoulder melodramatically. "Cease and desist, woman, or I'm going to have to take defensive measures."

"Oh really?"

"Really," he answered. "But first, allow me to excuse myself." And with that he parted the curtains and padded off toward the loo.

The curtains remained slightly open while Ron was gone, and Hermione leaned forward and craned her neck to get a good look at Harry's bed. His four-poster was now occupied. She could see Harry and Ginny's trainers both tucked neatly beside the bed. Hmm. She made a mental note to pump Ginny for information about that particular situation later. In the meantime, she thanked Merlin that either Harry or Ginny had been mindful enough to cast a strong Muffliato charm on the bed before retiring, for not a sound — not even so much as a breath — could be heard from that direction. But before she could think much more about it, Ron returned and she realized that she could do with a trip to the loo herself.

"Be right back," she whispered, slipping out of the bed as Ron tucked himself back in.

Ron watched her go, shaking his head briskly for a second to remind himself that what he was seeing and experiencing was real — not yet another pointless and agonizing dream. It really was Hermione tiptoeing quietly through his room toward the loo and, a few minutes later, it really was Hermione returning to his bed — _his_ bed! — and stretching herself out beside him in his arms. Gods.

"Have you been awake for long?" he asked as she settled into his arms and rested her head on his shoulder. He nestled his hand in her hair and pressed her cheek against his bare chest.

"No," she answered. "Well, I don't know, actually. I was dreaming — good dreams," she hastened to add, "and then, well, I slowly realized that my eyes were open and I was just … well … looking at you."

"Hmm," he murmured as he planted a kiss atop her head. "It is a bit hard to believe it's real, isn't it."

"It is," she answered without hesitation. She knew exactly what he meant. And, at that very moment, he knew exactly what she meant. It had been that way ever since the battle ended. For the first time in all the years they'd known one another, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger understood exactly what the other one meant. Doubt, fear, insecurity … all the impediments that had complicated their relationship … seemed to drop away, leaving only the confidence of a friendship that had endured and crystallized into something even greater than that, and faith in one another's best intentions. Ron took in a deep breath, realizing and savoring it, and Hermione wrapped her arm around his middle pulling herself that much closer to him as the feeling enveloped her as well.

"Hermione," Ron sighed.

"Hmm?"

He let a few seconds go by before responding. "Nothing. I just like saying your name," he said.

She chuckled and nuzzled his shoulder. "I like hearing you say it."

"Good."

They laid there in silence, listening to the rhythm of one another's breathing for some space of time, though neither was really aware of how long.

Ron had been threading his fingers in and out of her curls, silently apologizing to her in his head, for he imagined that she'd curse him in the morning when she saw what a mess he'd made of her locks. But her hair was so silky, he couldn't resist sinking his fingers into it and exploring it — especially now that he was at liberty to do so after so many years of staring and wishing.

"Mione," he whispered a little while later, not sure if she was even awake. He was mildly surprised when she answered, "Yes?"

"I'm sorry, you know," he said lowly. She knew in her bones what he meant — Lavender, leaving the hunt for a time, the Yule Ball … saying the occasional mean thing to her over the years — and he knew in his bones that she understood implicitly what he was getting at without explanation.

"I know you are," she answered. "Most of it wasn't your fault you know."

He paused to consider. "Well …" he began.

"No, really," she said, cutting him off and lifting herself up, propping up on her elbow so she could really look at him. "So much of it was just, I don't know, us being young and stupid — both of us," she said. He made to interject, but she pressed her index finger against his lips. "It's true, darling, you know it is," she added. "We were too young to know better, and the time wasn't right," she said. "We had a job to do. We had to think of Harry first and foremost."

Ron nodded reluctantly, though he knew she was right, of course.

"As for the other thing — the hunt," she continued, her voice wobbling a bit. "I have a good idea what was really going on there, Ronald, and I promise you, that truly wasn't your fault."

"Hermione," he said firmly, "that's not on and you know it. I've got a lot to answer for, and that—"

She pressed a finger against his lips again. "Shh," she whispered. "We both have a lot to answer for, Ronald. And, someday, I'll convince you why you shouldn't feel bad at all about what happened on the hunt, about what that blasted Horcrux did to you."

She nodded and tilted her face toward him to be sure he was listening to her — and she was gratified to see that he was. He tilted his face up to her trustingly, unshed tears threatening to well over onto his cheeks.

"I think I know precisely what that Horcrux did to you, my love, and I intend to ease your conscience on that score — but not tonight. I'd rather speak of more pleasant things tonight. In the meantime, please trust me on this: The Horcrux wasn't your fault, and I'd say that I forgive you for all of it, except that there's nothing to forgive." He hiccuped, but she pressed on. "Even if there _were_ something to forgive, Ron, the ledgers between us were balanced that night at Malfoy Manor. You saved my life and I reckon that, even if I _did_ blame you for what happened on the hunt, what you did for me that night — _and_ at Shell Cottage — was enough to erase any harm we may have done to one another before then. The good news is, we've got a lifetime to sort it all out, don't we."

As he listened, Ron felt a stinging, tightening sensation in his throat as he fought to choke back tears. Gods, she was letting him off the hook — and for so much. He wasn't sure he deserved it but, as she spoke, he slowly let go, reckoning that the time for arguing with her about his shortcomings could wait. For now, he decided, he'd trust her. And she was worth trusting, wasn't she. By Merlin, he thought, she hasn't let me down yet.

"I love you, Ron," she added for good measure, and these words were all it took to unlock the dam that he'd placed on his emotions until then. Before he could second-guess himself, he surged forward and pressed Hermione back against the mattress. He crushed his mouth against hers, plunging his tongue deep between her lips. Hermione, shaken at first by the power of his forceful movements, quickly melted and wrapped her legs tightly around Ron's middle, and silently thanked whatever forces had brought them there to this place, safely and in one piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _If you're wondering what Hermione's theory is about Ron's departure from the hunt and the way the Horcrux affected him, then you might want to read my first fic, "All In," because I lay it all out in fine detail there. That story is complete and just waiting for you to dive in and enjoy._


	8. Chapter 8

Ron reckoned it must have been about three in the morning, but he couldn't be sure. It was dark, he knew that much, but a bit of light was seeping in through the curtains. He'd stirred from a deep, dreamless sleep, and his eyes had flickered open, his gaze resting on the slender arm that was draped across his chest. _Hermione's_ arm. It was only then that he fully remembered where he was — his four poster at Hogwarts — and who was with him. Voldemort was dead. The mission was complete. Harry was safe. His family was nearby — grieving, but together. He took in a deep breath through his nose and let it out again, pulling Hermione closer to his chest, cradled as she was by his left arm, and smiled to himself when he felt her curl up that much tighter against him in response.

She was still dozing, though. He kissed the top of her head and crooked his right arm beneath his head, the better to see the curve of her hip and the line of her leg next to his own.

Sweet Merlin, he wanted her. He'd always wanted her, of course — Hermione had been the star of his every sexual fantasy, even during the Lavender days — and his cock stirred to life at the recollection. He knew she was inexperienced, however, and he'd be damned if he'd do anything to pressure her. He was just starting to think that he ought to distract himself from his horny thoughts lest she wake and be flustered by his arousal when — _damn_ — she rolled even closer toward him in her sleep, bending her leg so that her thigh was clenched about his midsection and then … she awoke with a start, lifting her head slightly from its resting place on his shoulder.

There was no way to deny it, no way to hide it: He had a rock-solid erection, and the pressure of Hermione's leg against it only served to make it worse — or better, depending on one's point of view. The friction was, in fact, exquisite torture, and Ron struggled to arrange his face into something like a passive expression, though what he wanted more than anything else was to flip her onto her back and snog her senseless. He was thankful for the lack of light within the confines of the bedcurtains, for he was quite certain that his ears had heated up to a telltale, flaming pink.

In the same instant, Hermione felt her cheeks flush, and she averted her eyes from his, wondering what to do next. If she pulled her leg away from his warm, throbbing and … goodness, quite large … erection, would Ron take that as a signal that she was revolted by his obvious arousal? Because she most certainly wasn't. In fact, she was slightly surprised to find that she was quite the opposite of revolted. She felt a flutter in her chest and between her legs at the realization that he was so turned on — by her. She smiled shyly despite her confusion, and raised her eyes to meet his in the semi-darkness.

"You're, um … awake," Hermione whispered, biting her lower lip and flicking her gaze to his mouth momentarily before peering up toward his eyes again.

Ron let out a small, embarrassed chuckle. "Yeah, you could say that," he said quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a lopsided, uncertain grin.

Hermione raised herself onto one elbow, a motion that necessarily forced her to shift her leg downward and off his erect shaft. Ron let out a brief moan in response, not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed at the loss of contact.

Before he could decide, Hermione spoke again. "How long have you been … erm … up?" she asked in a small voice.

"Not long," Ron said hurriedly, then kicked himself inwardly for sounding like such a nervous prat. "Just a minute or two before you," he added.

"Oh."

"Yeah, so …"

An awkward pause followed.

Hermione squirmed slightly, accidentally nudging her center against Ron's hipbone, and she breathed a shallow gasp at the warm, buzzing feeling that radiated from her core at the contact. Her hand, which was still resting against his chest, flexed in response, and she felt the nipple beneath her fingertips harden slightly at her touch. Ron hissed quietly in response but said nothing, trying desperately not to move, for fear of startling her in some way.

"Do you, um … do you want to—" she murmured, but Ron, skittish and if possible even more turned on than he was before, cut her off.

"Do I want to what?" he blurted with a note of panic in his voice.

"Oh, uh," Hermione replied, now equally jittery. "I just wondered if you wanted to go back to sleep."

"Oh! Oh, that," Ron sputtered.

There was another awkward pause.

"Well?" she whispered after a moment.

"Well, what?"

"Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Want to go to sleep?"

"No!" Ron said, a little louder than he intended. He gulped, trying to collect himself. "No. I mean, well, no, I'm, uh, I'm pretty awake right now, and, I dunno … I mean, I reckon I could catch some more winks if I tried, but I…"

Hermione watched him babble with an increasing sense of amusement.

"… I mean, I could go either way, really," he continued, oblivious to her growing grin, "but, uh, you know, if you'd like to just, I dunno, stay up and talk or — oh … Sweet. FUCKING! Merlin…" He groaned that last bit with a deep, gravelly growl, because Hermione, unbeknownst to him as he'd been chattering away, had summoned her inner Gryffindor, had lifted her free hand from his chest and had settled it firmly on his erection, squeezing it gently through the flannel of his pyjama trousers. "Oh, bloody hell, Mione," he added a bit more loudly, tipping his head back into his pillow as he slammed his eyes shut. "Oh, _gods_ …"

Hermione, meanwhile, was fascinated. She'd felt Ron's erection against her middle as they'd snogged at various points throughout the evening, but she hadn't yet touched it with her hand, and she was amazed at how remarkably large it was. She pressed her palm against its length, the pressure causing Ron to take a deep breath through his nostrils, and she marveled that it extended several inches beyond the full span of her hand. She then lightened her touch and dragged her index finger up the underside of his cock toward the head, a movement that drew a faint whimper from Ron's lips. She realized, quite contentedly, that he was quite under her power at that moment, and the idea thrilled her. He wanted her — and she knew it. And, by Merlin, she wanted _him,_ too.

"Does that feel good?" she whispered, watching his face as he clenched his eyes more tightly shut, his brow furrowed, his lips drawn into a tight line.

"Beyond good, love," he answered with a slightly choked voice. "Fucking fantastic. Gods. If you keep doing that, though, Mione, I'm going to beg you not to stop."

Hermione felt strangely shy all of a sudden, but was reassured by the look of ecstasy that continued to wash over Ron's face at her touch. Emboldened, she pressed her fingers against the head of his cock just a bit harder through the fabric. "Maybe I don't want to stop," she said, and bit back a smile as he let out a low moan in response.

"If you're sure you don't want to stop …" Ron breathed, opening his eyes to look her over for signs that she might not be certain. Seeing none, he continued: "If you don't want to stop, then maybe … if you wouldn't mind …"

With that, he reached out his right hand, which had been tucked between his neck and his pillow, grasped her by the wrist, and eased her hand beneath the waistband of his trousers. There, he flattened her fingers against his shaft and, as he pressed his own hand against the back of hers, she curled her fingers around him and squeezed firmly. The skin-on-skin contact was breathtaking. Yes, Lavender had touched him before. She'd done far more than touch, truth be told, but this was _Hermione,_ and the feeling of her little hand wrapped directly around him was more than glorious — it was a dream come true. His flesh, so warm as to feel nearly scalding to him, pounded and twitched against her palm. He was quite sure, in fact, that he would come explosively — and soon — unless he somehow managed to control himself.

Hermione, meanwhile, was astonished at how solid Ron's shaft was — solid but also sheathed in remarkably soft and silky skin. She could feel the strong rhythm of his pulse beneath its stunningly warm surface. But …

"I want to see you," she said with a firm and confident tone that rather surprised her.

It surprised Ron, too. His eyes, which had slid shut as he savored the feel of her skin on his, popped open. And the sight before him made his heart skip a beat: Hermione Granger, clad in his old, tattered Gryffindor practice jersey, lying in his bed with her hand clenched firmly around his todger. It was proving to be a night of many wonders — and yet, apparently, there were more wonders yet to unfold, for Hermione Granger had just announced, quite boldly, that she wanted to see more of him.

He couldn't help but laugh.

"What's so funny?" she said in a mildly vexed tone, her grip tightening slightly.

"Nothing, it's just that … Merlin's sweatsocks … I can hardly believe … do you have any idea how often I've wished …" And, with that, he laughed again despite himself.

Hermione couldn't help but chuckle, too, pausing long enough to say, "Well, is it so wrong that I want to see you?" She let go of him and instead tugged at the waistband of his trousers. Ron was about to raise his hips and let her continue pulling his trousers down when she spoke again. "I mean, if you're my boyfriend, I should, you know … I should get to see what's mine, shouldn't I?"

He looked at her and could see, even in the dim light within the four-poster, that she was sincere — though she had tried to speak these words with a teasing lilt in her voice. But really, he knew Hermione well enough to know that she was dead serious — and that she was more than a bit worried that maybe she'd gotten carried away with herself, and that maybe he was judging her now for having been too forward, too demanding.

He smiled and reached out, taking the hand that had been pulling gently at his trousers, and pressed it to his lips, kissing her knuckles one by one. "Mione, is that it? Is that what I am now?" he whispered against her skin. "Am I your boyfriend?"

She leaned against him, the better to look into his face directly. "If you want to be, yes, I suppose you are," she replied, her voice breathy and low. "Is that what you want?"

Ron turned her hand in his and kissed her palm before clutching it to his heart. "I want to be a hell of a lot more than that, love. A hell of a lot more," he said. "But if that's the title on offer at the moment, I'll take it."

Something about these words … or maybe just the way he said them … brought tears back to Hermione's eyes, and before she knew it, she had very nearly leapt at him, crushing her lips to his, and he kissed her back with gusto.


	9. Chapter 9

"Well, if you're my boyfriend, then I suppose that means I'm your girlfriend," Hermione panted. She was nearly out of breath from snogging Ron so vigorously, her cheeks were warm from the exertion and her heart was beating double-time.

Ron, lying beneath her, smiled and playfully squeezed her bum with both hands through her pyjama shorts. "A brilliant deduction, love," he said before returning his lips to the slope of her neck.

Hermione squirmed gleefully against him as he squeezed her backside once again, more firmly this time.

Laughing, she drew herself away and flopped onto her back next to him on the mattress. He responded in precisely the way she hoped he would, rolling onto his side and pinning her beneath him. He was ready to dive in and kiss her again when she pressed her hands to his chest and spoke.

"Perhaps we should define our terms, Ronald," she said, half jesting, half serious.

Mildly startled, Ron made a show of wiggling his finger in one ear and said, "Come again, sweetheart?"

"You heard me," she replied, slapping his chest slightly with one hand while biting her lower lip to stifle a grin.

"I'm sorry, I thought you said you wanted to define the words 'boyfriend' and 'girlfriend.'"

She rolled her eyes. "I want to be sure we both understand the rules."

"Oh, the _rules,_ " he said, tongue firmly in cheek. "It's always rules with you, Granger, isn't it."

Hermione sighed, and Ron realized that, all teasing aside, she had something on her mind — and he knew from experience the best thing he could do was to hunker down and let her sort it out. With an exaggerated, good-natured grumble, he lowered himself to the bed and laid on his side to face her. Hermione pivoted likewise, looking at him from across their pillows, their hands the only point of contact between them.

She was about to say something but found herself distracted by the sight of him. His hair was disheveled just so, his bare arms and chest were so muscular and, well … irresistible … and though it was dark, she was still quite aware of the bulge in his trousers, which she longed to touch again.

"Oi, woman," Ron piped up after a few moments, "Earth to Hermione."

"Oh, sorry," she muttered with a slight shake of her head. "Where was I? Oh … well," she continued crisply. "I just think that, given our history and what a tremendously poor job we have sometimes done of communicating, perhaps it would be best if we, well …"

She trailed off, not sure she knew quite how to put her feelings into words.

"You want to know where we both stand," Ron supplied.

Hermione nodded. "Yes, that's it, I think."

Ron nodded and looked her over. "All right, then," he said, softly but firmly. "So … if you're my girlfriend and I'm your boyfriend … well, what do _you_ think the rules are, love?"

She bit her lip and thought about it. Somehow she knew that her rules would mesh with his but, well … she just wanted to say it all out loud. Her face warmed at the thought, the thrill of recognizing her feelings and being able to express them at the same time nearly overwhelming her.

"I think, as your girlfriend, that I have certain rights and privileges," she said through a smile.

"Oh you do, do you?" he answered, grinning right back.

"I do indeed," she continued. "You are now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, _mine,_ Mr. Weasley, and I think you'll find me to be quite insistent on the matter."

Doing his best not to chuckle at this, Ron cleared his throat. "Ah, I do believe I take your meaning, Miss Granger," he added in mock seriousness. "Quite. And, if memory serves, you recently expressed interest in inspecting that which is yours."

It took Hermione a second to compute what he'd said, but she caught up with him when he laid on his back, his eyes never leaving hers, and reached to pull down and then kick off his trousers, revealing the erection that had been demanding her attention from beneath his flannel pyjamas for above a quarter of an hour. Then, surprisingly, he extracted his wand from beneath his pillow and Conjured one of her patented bluebell flames, placing it in a hastily Conjured jelly jar and Levitating it toward the foot of the bed to give her a better view — all the while mentally patting himself on the back for having learned how to do all these things simply from watching her during the months of the hunt.

She gasped audibly at the gesture for the sight of him was indeed breathtaking. Ron, unclad, was a compellingly foreign sight to her eyes. So much of what laid before her was comfortingly familiar — the sculpted arms tapering down to large, fine-jointed and expressive hands, the broad shoulders, the muscular neck, the flat abdomen, the lithe legs — but the part of him that had always been hidden from her … well, it was entirely new terrain.

Hermione's gobsmacked expression brought a satisfied smile to Ron's face. He couldn't help it. Propping himself up on one elbow, he leaned back to watch her reaction in the light of the flames, which he Transformed from blue to what he judged to be a more flattering yellow with one further incantation before stowing his wand beneath his pillow again.

He could almost feel Hermione's gaze upon his cock, and it twitched in response.

Hermione, meanwhile, was staggered. Her lips hung open slightly. She gulped and suddenly became conscious that her mouth had gone dry. She was so caught up with the sight before her that she almost didn't hear when Ron cleared his throat and spoke up. The movement of his hand from the surface of the bed to his hip was what finally caught her attention.

"Sorry, what was that?" she rasped, swallowing once and then twice to try to regain her voice.

"I said, Do you like what you see?" Ron asked again with a slight smile.

Hermione finally tugged her eyes away to take in the rest of him, studying his legs down to his feet, then savoring the view of his lean torso before letting her eyes settle back onto his cock, which was … well, it was spectacular … long and thick, a creamy column capped by a pink, ridged head … round testicles nestled in a slight patch of light ginger hair … so solid-looking, traversed by protruding veins … glorious. Glorious and perhaps a bit intimidating, given its size.

Her obvious wonderment couldn't help but amuse Ron — and, truth be told, he was chuffed.

Hermione swallowed again. "I … yes," she murmured, almost to herself, aware now of a growing warmth that was radiating from between her legs and outward toward the rest of her body. "It's … oh, gods," she sputtered, then collected herself and lifted her eyes to his. "You're stunning, Ronald. All of you. Just stunning. Honestly."

His smile widened and he reached for her, taking her hand in his while lying back against his pillow.

"C'mere, then," he said, pulling her gently toward him.

"I'm yours, aren't I?" he said.

At her nod, he continued. "Well then," he whispered, and placed her hand on his shaft.

She'd felt him earlier, of course, but feeling _and_ seeing, well, that was a different matter altogether, and the warmth that had begun to surge between Hermione's legs was now accompanied by a pronounced throbbing sensation.

"Oh, Ron," she breathed as he tightened her grip beneath his and coaxed her to pull upward firmly, and then stroke downward. He drew in a deep breath through his nose at the motion and moaned on the exhale, and Hermione felt another throb at her core.

"That's it, love," he said, his voice deep and smoky. "Just like that." He let go of her hand and laid back, shutting his eyes as she continued to stroke him. "Ohhhhhhhhh, Mione," he moaned. "Gods, I love you."


	10. Chapter 10

Ron came with all the explosive force of the Hogwarts Express running at full throttle.

He had felt it coming on after only a minute of two of her attentions to his cock and somehow was able to gasp out a somewhat coherent warning — "Gods, Mione … it's … I'm going to … oh, love, I'm … _ffffffuck_ yes" — before the waves of pleasure overtook him and he slammed his head back into his pillow, moaning so loudly that Hermione was glad she'd reinforced Ron's Muffliato charm earlier in the evening.

Hermione had watched, fascinated and nearly drunk on the power she felt as Ron writhed and groaned beneath her. Her touch — _her_ touch — had drawn this impassioned response from Ron. Powerful magic indeed.

Kneeling beside him, she studied him in the warm glow of the flames he'd Conjured. His eyes were still shut, his chest still heaving from his release. He'd collapsed against the mattress and soon stretched himself languidly, a small smile gracing his lips.

He inhaled deeply then sighed dramatically. "Sorry about that, love," he said as he tucked one arm beneath his neck, opening his eyes and reaching out with the other to stroke her thigh.

Hermione, meanwhile, had pulled her wand out and was tidying him up with a few quick flicks. "Sorry? Sorry about what?" she asked as she stowed the wand back beneath her pillow.

Ron chuckled. "Well, it doesn't usually happen that fast," he said sheepishly. "Reckon I was just too turned on to take it slow."

She smiled and stretched out next to him, humming contentedly as he wrapped his arm about her shoulder and pulled her snugly against his chest.

"There's nothing to apologize for, darling," she said, tipping her face up to kiss his neck as she caressed his freckle-spattered chest, tickling the few ginger hairs she found there with her fingertips. "I daresay we have all the time in the world for you to teach me," she added, a cheeky note in her voice.

All the time in the world. As she said it, the thought hit them both with a sudden pang: The war was well and truly over. They'd sustained terrible losses — friends, loved ones and family. They'd never be the same. Their childhoods were over. And yet, a vast stretch of time laid before them now, for the first time unobstructed by worry, doubt, impossible missions and the threat of violence and death.

They had a future — and they were going to share it.

Hermione reached across Ron's chest and pulled herself even closer to him, tears stinging her eyes, and Ron took advantage of her momentum to swing her up until she was sitting astride him. Reaching up to clasp her face in both hands, he pulled her face down to his and crushed his lips against hers. Hermione opened her mouth to him, darting her tongue alongside his as he plunged it between her lips. The throbbing she'd felt between her legs earlier returned in force, and she ground her flannel-covered bum against Ron's midsection, craving contact.

"You're right as always, love," Ron murmured against her lips. "We've got all the time in the world," he added as he slid his hands from her face to her neck and then down to her shoulders, shifting to plant kisses on her cheeks, her jawline, her throat and behind her ear. "We've got forever, Mione. I want you forever."

"Oh, darling," Hermione sighed, her throat tightening as tears threatened to spill from her eyes. "I'm so thankful. I'll never stop being thankful. You made it. You came back to us — to me. Please, please promise …"

He knew what she was alluding to without even having to ask. The hunt. His departure. His return. He chased away the familiar surge of guilt — if they did indeed have all the time in the world, he could deal with that matter later — and instead focused on her words. She was thankful he'd come back. She was thankful he'd survived. For now, he decided, that was all that mattered.

"I promise, love, I promise," he said in a low voice. "I'll never leave your side again, Hermione Granger. Never."

He was so busy continuing to pepper kisses up and down the column of her neck that he hadn't noticed the slight shift in her posture — that is, until she pulled back and he saw that she had grasped the hem of her shirt (actually, _his_ shirt). And before he could fully comprehend what she was doing, she had raised her arms and pulled the shirt over her head, tossing it aside and uncovering a sight that left Ron speechless: Hermione, bare from the waist up.

"Do you like what you see?" she asked timidly, smiling through the tears still glittering in her eyes as she mimicked his earlier words.

Ron, who had been smiling open-mouthed at the sight, let out a small, gasping laugh. "Like? No, I don't like, Hermione. I love. I love what I see."

She sniffled and grinned even wider. "I reckon that, as my boyfriend, you are entitled to certain rights and privileges," she said. "Such as …"

Hermione reached for Ron's hands, which he had settled on her thighs, and lifted them to her breasts, moaning softly as he greedily cupped her flesh in his palms and brushed his thumbs gently over her nipples. Her breasts, she thought with chagrin, weren't large, but she studied Ron's face for signs of disappointment and found none. In fact, he was smiling like he'd been Confunded.

"Mione," he breathed, gently tweaking her nipples yet again and sending ripples of electricity to her core. "Sweet Merlin, you're beautiful, love. So beautiful."

And she was, of course. He knew she would doubt his sincerity, but he meant it. She was gorgeous, her honey-colored skin so velvety in the firelight, her golden-brown curls draping over her shoulders. And her breasts — gods. He'd dreamt of them so may times. And yet, here they were, even more delectable than he could have imagined, round and firm, tipped by dainty, erect nipples the color of maple syrup. He longed to taste them.

He thought she must have read his mind for, not more than a minute later, she leaned forward and offered a nipple to him, grazing it tenderly against his lips. She hissed slightly at the buzzing sensation that coursed through her when his mouth touched the tender nub of her breast, and she didn't even attempt to rein in the moan that rose from deep within her chest when he took her between his lips and sucked, flicking for good measure with the tip of his tongue. "Oh, Ronnnnnnnnnnnnald," she groaned from the back of her throat, sinking her hands into his hair and nudging her chest even closer to his mouth.

The sound of her moans, coupled with the feel of her sweet, soft breasts in his hands and in his mouth, sent energy pulsing through Ron's veins, and after a few more minutes of suckling, he surged forward, toppling Hermione onto her back. He laid next to her on his side, one leg astride her middle, as he continued to run his mouth from one breast to the other, then up to her neck — where he planted little nibbles that he knew might leave marks, but he didn't care — and then he traced his way back again to her breasts, so ripe and inviting.

"Mione, love," he murmured as he went. "Gods, you're so sweet, Hermione. So beautiful."

He returned his mouth to her lips, kissing her long and hard. She was so distracted by the feel of his probing tongue that she hardly noticed the hand that had tucked itself ever so gently beneath the waistband of her pyjama shorts — that is, not until Ron's finger found its way between her legs.

He smiled against her lips when she _did_ notice — her sharp intake of breath was a dead giveaway.

"Let me make you feel good, Mione," he whispered. "Let me do what you've done for me."

She was in no mood to resist. In fact, she was hungry for his touch. Tremors and pangs had rippled through her all evening, and now she craved release. "Mmm," she hummed against him with a small nod. "Please, darling," she added. "Please."

Ron smiled into her mouth, knowing that years of unsolicited sexual advice from his older brothers — not to mention his previous experience with Lavender, which he very much preferred _not_ to mention, come to think of it — was about to become far more useful than he could have guessed.

Angling his fingers just so, he felt a feeling of satisfaction well up in him as his caresses slowly began to have their intended effect. Hermione, laid out beneath him, stretched and pointed her toes, her eyes squinting as her breath grew more shallow. "Oh yes, Ron," she panted. "Oh, gods." She could hardly believe the feeling — yes, she was turned on, but it was more than that. It was Ron. _Ron._ Making her feel things she'd only felt in the privacy of her four-poster. He was soooooooooooo good at it, too — but before she could let her mind wander to how he came to be quite so knowledgeable, she felt a jolt between her legs and soon she was concentrating, concentrating with all her might on a fixed point somewhere in her mind. A wave of heat was washing over her, starting between her legs and then engulfing all of her body, as she straightened her legs and called out — quite loudly — "Oh, Ronnnnnnnnn!"

A minute or so later — though it felt like hours — she was coming down from her high, able once again to perceive Ron lying next to her, looking down at her with a sweet and undeniably smug expression. "Liked that, did you?" he said with a grin.

She slapped his arm teasingly. "You shouldn't ask questions you already know the answer to, Ronald," she said, rolling onto her side and resting her palms on the flat planes of his chest.

"A bloke just likes to be sure he's done the job right is all," Ron added.

She looked up at him and kissed his chin, the tip of his nose, and then his lips. "Oh, you've done quite well, Ronald. Quite well indeed."

There was more to say … so much more … and both of them fought to keep their eyes open to say it. But it had to be four in the morning at that point if not later — or earlier, depending on one's perspective. Exhaustion pulled at them both once again as Ron laid on his back and they settled into one another's arms.

"Oh, darling," she murmured, caressing his arm from his elbow to his shoulder and down again. "I so want to stay awake and talk …"

Ron laughed, though his eyes were closed. "I so want to stay awake and _not_ talk," he said, earning himself a teasing slap on the forearm.

Hermione fitted herself closer against his side and nestled her head between his shoulder and his neck. "I love you so much, Ronald."

"I love you, too," he mumbled, squeezing her gently in his arms. "There is indeed a lot to discuss, isn't there." She nodded, and he continued. "The good news is, we can sort it all out tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. Deal?"

She smiled, eyes shut. "Deal, darling."

~~Finis~~


End file.
